


do what i say (and i'll make you okay)

by void_fish



Series: sub dubi [4]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Authority Figures, BDSM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 19:38:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20879597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/void_fish/pseuds/void_fish
Summary: It’s tradition. The team name a captain. The captain chooses a sub.





	do what i say (and i'll make you okay)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm doing Kinktober I GUESS
> 
> Day one is only two days late I'M DOING FINE.
> 
> This is for the prompt: power difference/authority figure. ENJOY.

Brandon can hear the whir of cameras, the feedback of microphones.

His shoulders ache a little; just enough to remind him where he is.

The room is small, just big enough for the five of them lined up on their knees, shoulder to shoulder, arms bound behind them, union blue leather criss-crossing their chests. Brandon’s head is ducked enough that he can see the silver crest just above his sternum with his number stamped into it.

In the next room over, someone tells a joke, and there’s a ripple of muffled laughter. Brandon doesn’t respond.

He remembers it being like this in New York, too. There were less of them to choose from then, Cally glancing between Brandon and Kreids and Prusty before shrugging, too casual, and grabbing the band of leather around Prusty’s throat and tugging him to his feet.

It’s tradition. The team name a captain. The captain chooses a sub. But first, there’s the press conference. And until that’s done, Brandon waits.

Joey shifts, next to him. He’s a little wide eyed. All the kids are, really. Brandon’s the oldest by about a decade, he figures, and the only one not still on his entry level. Brandon bumps his shoulder, soothing, and he settles a little.

‘This is the easy bit,’ he risks murmuring. Behind them, a coach smacks him on the head, not too gently. 

‘You know the rules, Dub,’ he says, and Brandon stops. He’s right, though. This waiting is awful, but worlds better than the medically detached way the doctor had opened him up with two fingers, inserted a plug with Fligs’ number etched into it inside a C. Better than after, when the ones that aren’t chosen are freed and left to their own devices until they shake themselves out of whatever subspace they manage to drop into.

Compared to that, the waiting is easy. 

In the other room, applause. Brandon glances up at the door Fligs is about to come through. He flexes his fingers, tugs against the bindings on his wrist to try and loosen the stiffness in his joints. They’ve been kneeling for almost an hour and a half.

The coach smacks him again. ‘Head down,’ he says, and Brandon drops his gaze.

Fligs is still wearing his jersey with the brand new C and his smile when he comes in the room, looks up and down the line of guys. Brandon looks up at him through his eyelashes, not wanting another smack.

‘Come on, B,’ Fligs says, running a hand through Brandon’s hair, tugging his head up to look at him properly.

Brandon’s mouth drops open. He’s about to say something, but Fligs is already dragging him to his feet, hooking his other hand in the harness to test the give. He scrapes a thumb nail over a nipple and Brandon makes a sound that makes Nick’s smile change, just a little. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘This one.’

-

There’s a room in every arena for-- ceremonies like this. Brandon is following Fligs through the back corridors, away from all the cameras. The world knows this happens but they don’t need photo evidence of it, specifically of Brandon on his way to fucked until he can’t stand anymore.

Brandon’s never been in the Blue Jackets’ ceremony room before. It’s surprisingly inviting. Not like New York, which is basically a training room with a bed in the middle and a rack on the wall with toys.

Fligs’ hand lands on the back of Brandon’s neck, heavy.

‘I was going to let you choose,’ he says, and Brandon didn’t know he was so affected by this, but Fligs’ voice is rough and sandpaper-y and when he looks down, there’s a telltale bulge in his dress pants. ‘Which was you wanted it.’ The hand tightens, and Brandon gets shoved onto the bed on his belly, hands still trapped behind him. ‘But you look so fucking good, B, I’m just going to make the most of it. After all, I have all day.’

Brandon’s fight or flight kicks in when Fligs grabs his hips, maneuvers him to the edge of the bed so that his knees hit the carpet and his chest is flush against the mattress. He tries to wrestle his way upright, and Fligs just shoves him down again, hand between his shoulder blades, pinning him easily. Brandon has no leverage. It doesn’t stop him wriggling, until there’s a crack and a sting, and he realises Fligs has hit him, an open palm slap on the meat of his ass.

‘Are you going to behave?’ Fligs asks, in the silence.

‘Signs point to no,’ Brandon admits, and Fligs laughs.

‘At least you’re honest,’ he says, and hits him again. This one jostles the plug, and it shifts inside him, making him gasp. There’s a lingering tingle running over his ass, and he can feel it heating and pinking already, just from two hits.

It’s easy, after that, to fall into it. He fights right up until Fligs slides the plug out and tests him with three fingers, and then he just-- stops. Fligs’ hand on his back is still pressing him into the sheets. It’s a little like a weighted blanket. Makes it easy to-- not turn off, but easier to give up. To let Fligs win. He’s the captain, after all.

‘You’d let me do this forever, wouldn’t you?’ Fligs asks, when he’s fucking into him, slow and steady, and Brandon is making helpless, breathy sounds, hands clenching and unclenching behind his back. ‘Maybe I will,’ he says. ‘Just keep you in this room forever. You’d like that, huh? Being someone’s-- mine, all day, every day, whenever I wanted you.’

Brandon moans, arches his back, tries with what leverage he has to push his ass up into Fligs.

‘You’d look so fuckin’ good, Dub,’ Fligs keeps going. ‘Strapped down, mouth and ass always open for me.’

Brandon flashes back to New York. To the first fighting major he got there. To the punishment afterwards, strapped to a bench, mouth held open with a cold metal ring until everyone on the team had jerked off in and around his mouth. How they’d kept him there until the come he hadn’t managed to lick up and swallow had dried in flakes. How hard he’d come in the shower afterwards.

He’s not supposed to come before the captain. It’s tradition. But he shudders and arches and writhes anyway, shouting loud enough that it echoes.

When he comes back to himself again, Fligs is still behind him, still buried in his ass. Brandon opens his mouth to apologise, and Nick covers it with a hand. 

‘Shh,’ he says. ‘I won’t tell if you don’t. But I think, in return, I get to fuck you until you can’t physically come anymore, huh?’

Brandon’s resulting whine is answer enough, he thinks.


End file.
